


your wide eyes are the only light i know

by viverella



Series: soft hearts; electric souls [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:41:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25251031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viverella/pseuds/viverella
Summary: Akaashi falls in love, and he’s not entirely sure if it’s with volleyball or Bokuto or a little of both, because somewhere along the line, the two become almost synonymous, inextricably intertwined.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Series: soft hearts; electric souls [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685863
Comments: 35
Kudos: 433
Collections: THE BEST HAIKYUU FANFICS AHHHHH—, my favorite hq fanfics pls





	your wide eyes are the only light i know

**Author's Note:**

> bokuaka nation how we feeling these days???? in between bouts of yelling at the top of my lungs abt ch 401 yesterday I remembered that I've had this fic sitting around FOREVER just waiting to be edited and posted, so u h here's the long-overdue part 2 to this series! if you didn't read the previous one, not to fear -- each fic is 100% standalone and they're different ships anyway. so. the connection is really more thematic than plot because I'm a sucker and I got obsessed with the Concept from [that one himym bit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W87l2Zha0-I) about like the stages of falling in love and I guess I needed an excuse to write a sort of fluffy, mushy character/relationship study. anyway sorry I clearly don't know how to post fic in a timely manner, but regardless, hope u enjoy!! 
> 
> title(s) borrowed from pablo neruda

**_i. i love the handful of earth that you are_ **

They say it takes ten weeks to establish a new habit, but Akaashi finds that this one only takes him three. Every day after practice, instead of packing up and heading home with everyone else, like maybe he would have if he’d gone anywhere else for high school, like maybe he would have, before, Akaashi stays. He stays because there’s this boy who doesn’t realize he’s changed the course of Akaashi’s life forever, this boy who loses himself completely in the rush of volleyball, who flies like he was born with wings, this boy who brings with him so much fire and passion and power when he’s playing and yet still somehow manages to be so much more in person than the exuberance he brings to the court. He stays because even if, the first time, he was asked purely out of convenience, solely because he was new and hadn’t learned yet to run away, it’s nice to feel chosen, in a way. Akaashi likes to think that things happen for a reason, and when he stays, night after night, setting until he thinks his arms will fall off, he realizes in the midst of it all that he starts to feel like he wasn’t completely out of his mind that day, coming home from watching this boy play and telling his parents _I’m going to Fukuroudani_ like it couldn’t ever have been anything else, like he hadn’t been agonizing over the decision for weeks. He starts to feel like this could be a place he actually belongs. 

It starts to feel easy. Not easy like Bokuto’s endless energy ever becomes any less of a sprint to keep up with, not easy like Akaashi ever stops demanding the best of himself, every single day, but easy in everything else. Spending time with Bokuto is easy, laughing with him between drills, teaching himself not to startle when Bokuto suddenly pops out of his peripheral vision in the middle of the crowded hallways during lunch, bright-eyed and breathing a little harder than usual like he sprinted all the way from the second year classrooms, half a building and a flight of stairs away. It’s not exactly what Akaashi was expecting, because Bokuto’s so unlike Akaashi in so many ways, loud and spontaneous and fearless, but it’s easy letting himself indulge in a way of living he might never have otherwise tried. More than that, it’s _fun_. It’s fun trying to guess which soda Bokuto might like when he’s at the vending machines and it’s fun watching clips from professional games together and talking strategy, Bokuto squished into his side and watching over Akaashi’s shoulder on Akaashi’s phone, and it’s fun playing volleyball, really fun, maybe for the first time in Akaashi’s life. 

It’s easy and fun and natural, listening to Bokuto ramble on and on about a movie he saw the other day, something involving magic and adventure and fantastical things. They’re about to lock up, and it’s well into the evening already, the last few rays of warm sunshine streaming through the windows of the club room painting the walls orange. It makes everything look softer, somehow, hazy around the edges, and it makes Bokuto’s already wild hair take on a new kind of carefully contained chaos and his amber eyes glow gold. Akaashi watches as Bokuto gestures wildly, trying to retell the story just right. Bokuto’s still half-dressed from practice, only half-ready to go home, still wearing one kneepad and holding his jacket in one hand like he’s forgotten it’s there, and Akaashi feels himself smiling without meaning to. It’s… charming, he decides, just a little bit. 

Akaashi reaches into his locker for his own jacket and gets distracted by a shout from Bokuto, and when he turns to see what happened, he sees Bokuto typing frantically into his phone and Akaashi accidentally slams his locker shut on his fingers. Akaashi jerks his hand back with a hiss. The metal door only managed to catch a couple of his fingertips, but he can see the angry red mark it’s left behind and shakes his hand out, as if that’ll stop the smarting. 

“Hey, Akaashi, you won’t believe what Konoha just—” Bokuto says, whirling around, and then he stops abruptly when his eyes land on Akaashi. The indignant look on his face immediately drops into wide-eyed concern, and he tips his head to one side, questioning, and asks, “You okay?”

Akaashi lets his hand fall and clenches it into a fist by his side. “I’m fine,” he says, voice even. He shrugs. “Just being clumsy. It’s nothing.”

Bokuto looks at him for a long moment, and Akaashi thinks to himself that this is maybe the longest he’s ever seen Bokuto so still (though what does he know, Akaashi thinks to himself, he’s only known Bokuto for a handful of weeks). But then Bokuto’s across the room in an instant, up in Akaashi’s space more quickly than he can really react, and he reaches for Akaashi’s hand and then stops, looks back up to meet Akaashi’s eyes again. 

“Can I?” he asks.

His voice is a little softer than Akaashi’s gotten used to over the past few weeks, his movements a little more tentative, and it catches Akaashi a little off guard, and so he nods without really thinking about it. Bokuto takes Akaashi’s hand gently, uncurling it from its fist so he can look a little more closely at Akaashi’s fingers, and a vague inkling of a realization dawns somewhere in the back of Akaashi’s mind that Bokuto’s probably a lot more considerate than people give him credit for. He stores the thought away for later. 

“It’s really not a big deal,” Akaashi says. Bokuto’s hands are steady and warm against his own, and Akaashi’s heartbeat sounds loud in his own ears. “I’ve had worse.”

Bokuto looks up at Akaashi then, and there’s this edge to his expression that Akaashi has never quite seen before. It’s maybe the most serious he’s ever seen Bokuto, and he finds himself holding his breath. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says earnestly, and for once, the sharp syllables of his name come out of Bokuto’s mouth just the right way. “You’re a setter. Your hands are everything to you.”

Bokuto’s eyes are sharp, almost piercing. It’s not frightening, per se, but something like it, only maybe, Akaashi thinks, in the complete opposite direction. Before coming to Fukuroudani, Akaashi had never quite thought of volleyball as a thing to love. It was just a thing that he did, that he was reasonably good at by some metric, that allowed him to push onwards and upwards in his life. But Bokuto treats it like something significant, something worth throwing your entire being into, like he doesn’t know any other way to live than to go all in on the things he loves. And Akaashi doesn’t know if it’ll ever be like that for him, because it all feels so foreign and strange, but he’d be lying to himself if he said he hasn’t felt himself getting swept up into it all anyways these past few weeks since arriving at Fukuroudani, this feeling bringing him back again and again and again.

( _Your hands are everything to you_ , Bokuto says, and Akaashi finds himself thinking, _Are they?_ )

(The answer, he realizes hours later is yes, maybe, eventually, if Bokuto keeps looking at him like that.)

Akaashi stares at Bokuto, his heart in his throat, and Bokuto stares back like he’s staring straight into Akaashi’s soul. For a long moment, neither of them says anything. And then Bokuto blinks. The moment passes. Bokuto’s face shifts easily into his usual sunny grin again and Akaashi wonders, irrationally, if he’ll end up looking back on this and think that he dreamed the whole thing up, that intense look in Bokuto’s eye, the way a feeling rushed up in Akaashi’s chest and threatened to swallow him whole for just a second or two. 

“Wait here,” Bokuto says, holding up a finger for emphasis, as if Akaashi would actually run off on him. “I’ve got just the thing!”

Before Akaashi can ask what he’s talking about, Bokuto’s already by his locker again, rooting around for something. Empty water bottles and a tangle of colorful shoelaces and a half-deflated volleyball come tumbling out as he searches, and Akaashi means to go over to insist that really, it’s not the big of a deal, or maybe just ask how Bokuto expects to find what he’s looking for in all that mess, but then Bokuto’s waving something in Akaashi’s direction. 

“Hold this,” he says.

Akaashi finds himself holding a small ice pack, the kind that cools after kickstarting a chemical reaction. Bokuto digs around for a moment longer before standing up triumphantly, brandishing a thick roll of athletic tape. He holds a hand out ( _gimme_ ), and Akaashi sets his hand in Bokuto’s palm again before he can come up with an excuse not to. Maybe this is what it means to possess a sort of gravity, Akaashi thinks to himself as he watches Bokuto carefully start to wind the tape around his fingers. Maybe this is what it means to be magnetic, pulling people towards you without meaning to.

“You’re surprisingly well-prepared,” Akaashi says, feeling oddly antsy, like if he doesn’t say something, he’ll burst. He peers past Bokuto to his locker, still hanging wide open and spilling its contents out onto the floor, and he spies a box of band-aids with cartoon characters on them and a couple rolled up ACE bandages, gauze pads and a scattering of alcohol wipes. 

Bokuto smiles softly, a kind of fondness creeping into his features as he continues to work on Akaashi’s fingers. Akaashi stands very still. 

“My sister’s a physical therapist,” Bokuto says by way of explanation, and even though this is the first time Akaashi’s hearing about this sister, he can tell that they’re close, can hear all the effusive affection Bokuto holds for the people he loves in his life, and Akaashi wonders idly if Bokuto’s entire family is like this, warm and enthusiastic and invested in things to a fault. 

“She was the original athlete of the family,” Bokuto continues, something gentler than Akaashi’s used to hearing from him coloring the tone of his voice. “Tennis player. She was really, really good too. Got a sports scholarship for college and everything. And then during her first year there, she completely blew out her knee. Couldn’t play anymore. So, she went into sports medicine instead.” Bokuto pauses, inspects his work on Akaashi’s fingers, and then adds, “I tweaked my shoulder when I was in middle school during my third year. It wasn’t bad, y’know? Just strained it a bit. But I think it made her nervous, so now every time she comes home, she gives me all this stuff and makes me promise to keep it with me.”

Bokuto’s hands still around Akaashi’s, and when Bokuto looks up again, his expression is so much softer than Akaashi’s gotten used to but no less bright, and Akaashi feels something almost painful tug at his chest. He swallows thickly. 

“Here,” Bokuto says quietly, “Trade.”

Bokuto hands Akaashi the roll of tape so he can take the ice pack and break the little capsule inside of it with a satisfying _crack_. Akaashi doesn’t quite know what he’s expecting, because he’s quickly learned that Bokuto is the kind of person who’s always filled with little surprises, tiny things to keep you on your toes, but it’s probably not this, Bokuto pressing the ice pack lightly to Akaashi’s fingers, carefully curling his own fingers around the other side to hold it in place. And it’s definitely not this, Bokuto smiling at him, so painfully sincere that Akaashi almost doesn’t know what to do with himself, and saying:

“Pressure and ice. That’s the first thing she taught me. Can’t have those pretty hands of yours bruising.”

The tape around Akaashi’s fingertips is snug, holding him in place like Bokuto’s strong, sure hands still cradling his, and Akaashi has to remind himself to breathe, an odd feeling starting to wedge its way between his ribs. There had been a little part of him, he admits, that had been worried in the months leading up to starting high school that maybe, actually meeting Bokuto would kill the magic that brought Akaashi to Fukuroudani in the first place, that old adage about never meeting your heroes echoing ominously at the back of his mind. There had been a part of him that had worried that maybe, he’d built this all up to be something it could never live up to, that the exhilaration sitting high in his chest that one day would turn out to be something he could never recreate. But Akaashi looks at Bokuto, this boy who gives and gives and gives and has no idea he’s even doing it, and he knows now that there’s no way he could’ve dreamed this up. Bokuto on the court is a force of nature, and Bokuto in person is like that too, except, Akaashi thinks, there’s something to be said for being close enough to be blown away and finding yourself holding steady. The calm hush after a storm passes. The eye of a hurricane. 

Akaashi looks at Bokuto, a sort of buoyant feeling sitting at the base of his throat, threatening to come out, a million things flashing through his mind, but what he ends up saying is just, “Thank you.”

Bokuto smiles at him, as warm as the evening sun. “Yeah, always,” he says, and Akaashi finds himself wondering if he really means it. 

**_ii. because of its meadows, vast as a planet_ **

The first time Akaashi sees Bokuto cry, it’s after their very first Interhigh together. Akaashi barely even gets to play, and he spends almost the entire time standing on the sidelines and watching Bokuto make the court his own, this boy who plays volleyball like it’s the only thing worth living for, this boy who looms so large in Akaashi’s life despite the spare few months they’ve known each other. Akaashi feels that same rush of anticipation he remembers from back in middle school, that same thrill at realizing again ( _a beautiful back-row attack so fast Akaashi can barely keep up_ ) and again ( _a no-touch service ace that leaves him breathless with the force of its impact on the court_ ) and again ( _a cross-shot so sharp Akaashi thinks he could probably cut his teeth on it_ ) that this is what volleyball can be like, that it can be this exciting, that it can be something so all-consuming and overwhelming. Akaashi feels that same feeling, like he’s suddenly wide awake after a lifetime of slumber, only the feeling is more pointed now, the outline of it crisper, and Bokuto wears the number four proudly on his back. It’s everything volleyball has never been for him, and Akaashi wonders if this is what it’s like to discover something no one else knows. 

Fukuroudani loses in the semifinals. 

The night of their loss, the team’s suite of hotel rooms is silent, save for quiet murmurs between the third years, planning, maybe, for what comes next, decisions to be made, questions to be answered. Akaashi sits restlessly on his futon, tapping his phone against his palm. Bokuto had been quiet during dinner, which had been odd in and of itself, but as Akaashi surveys the room, he realizes that everyone is present and accounted for except for the one person who’s usually the easiest to find, all loud cheer and bright laughter. He realizes that he hasn’t seen Bokuto at all since he disappeared to take a bath some time ago. The other second years have long since returned—Konoha and Komi are watching something on Komi’s phone, headphones split between the two of them, as Sarukui writes something in a slim notebook and Washio reads a book, both of them catching up on homework that’s fallen to the wayside in the rush of the tournament. If this were any other night, Bokuto would be with them, pestering them to play cards with him or trying to squeeze in and watch whatever it is with Konoha and Komi, just like he has every other night they’ve been here, every night they’ve all spent together during training camps and away games, but tonight, he’s nowhere to be found. The room is deafeningly quiet in his wake, and Akaashi finds that it bothers him more than he expects. 

“He’s probably somewhere sulking,” Konoha says when Akaashi asks, but his voice is a little kinder than his usual teasing lilt, and Akaashi twists his fingers together anxiously. Konoha looks meaningfully towards the balcony door and shrugs ( _what can you do?_ ).

(The answer, Akaashi thinks, is always something, or at least never nothing.)

The air outside is still warm, the humidity clinging to Akaashi’s skin as soon as he steps out, but as he slides the door shut behind him, he finds himself shivering anyways. Below, the whir of cars passing and the indistinct sound of conversations from people on the street or neighboring rooms or shouting off in the distance. Above, the moon, big and round and bright like a spotlight refusing to let anyone hide, and the faint twinkle of stars struggling to be seen past the flickering, ambient city light. At the far end of the balcony, Bokuto sitting with his legs tucked up to his chest, resting his chin on arms folded across his knees, staring out at the view like he doesn’t see any of it at all. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says softly, gently. It’s been a handful of months since he arrived at Fukuroudani, and they’ve been through many ups and downs together as a team, but Akaashi feels a tug in his chest that he’s not sure has anything to do with any of that. 

Bokuto doesn’t respond, just sniffles quietly. His hair is soft and loose from his bath earlier, falling in front of his eyes messily, and it catches Akaashi a little off guard every time, how young it makes Bokuto look, how unassuming. His eyes are a little glassy, a vague, wobbly reflection of the neon lights from a nearby building, and Akaashi thinks he can see Bokuto’s shoulders shaking, just a little, like he’s shivering even though it hasn’t been cold at all for months now. Akaashi draws in a heavy breath, wondering why such a simple thing suddenly feels so difficult. He makes his way over to Bokuto slowly, like he’s easing himself into the deep end of a pool, like he’s approaching a frightened animal, tense and skittish, and sits down next to him, crossing his legs under himself and trying not to fidget with his fingers too much. He looks out at the city around them and tries to see what Bokuto sees. 

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Akaashi says quietly after a long moment. 

Bokuto presses his mouth into a thin line, and out of the corner of his eye, Akaashi sees a tear spill over and trickle down Bokuto’s cheek. Akaashi clenches his hands into fists. His short fingernails dig painfully into his palms, but he knows it’s nowhere near the same thing that’s got its claws sunk into Bokuto’s heart. Akaashi thinks about Bokuto’s excitement from the beginning of the season, beaming at Akaashi when they got their jersey numbers ( _You’re looking at Fukuroudani’s new ace! Are you proud of me, Akaashi? Are you?_ ). He thinks about Bokuto running off mid-tournament the other day only to show up again with a brand new t-shirt commemorating his greatest accomplishment ( _You sure you don’t want one too?_ Bokuto had asked, and Akaashi had to remind him that it hardly made sense for a setter to wear a shirt like that, someone who wasn’t even in the starting lineup, besides). He thinks about this last game, their opponent clearly having done their homework and picking on Bokuto until he’d started to come apart at the seams, frazzled and impatient and upset. Akaashi can’t quite feel the pinch in his palms over the feeling filling his lungs. 

“I think,” Bokuto says finally after many minutes have ticked by. His voice is rougher than Akaashi’s gotten used to, and Akaashi’s fingers twitch, some odd impulse rising to the surface of his skin. “I think I wish you were our starting setter.”

Akaashi startles, whipping his head around to stare at Bokuto in disbelief. He had been subbed in earlier during the tournament, once, for all of five minutes during their third-round match when Bokuto had started flirting with the idea of imploding, but this game, they hadn’t had the time to switch him with their starting setter, a third-year and brilliant, and Akaashi isn’t sure he’d have been able to do anything about it this time anyways. He’d gotten lucky, in a way, the first time around, and they’d only been in the beginning of the second set then after winning the first, but at the tail end of a match played to full sets with only a small handful of points left, there hadn’t been any room for error. Akaashi’s still a first year, after all. He still has things he has to prove. The kind of trust to be subbed in when they’re in a pinch is the kind of thing that needs to be earned, and Akaashi hasn’t had the chance yet, one way or another. 

“That’s very generous of you,” Akaashi says carefully, though not unkindly. Bokuto isn’t the type of person to say things he doesn’t mean, but it still catches Akaashi flat-footed sometimes, the earnestness Bokuto carries with him like he can’t imagine any other way to live. “But I’d be no match for you all, I’m sure.”

Akaashi can see Bokuto’s mouth turn down into a frown, his eyebrows drawing together just so. It’s an odd thing, seeing Bokuto like this, and after all the time they’ve spent together, Akaashi has seen Bokuto down before, but it’s never felt quite so crushing. Akaashi wonders, idly, what Bokuto did before he came along to help him pick up the pieces, and then Akaashi pinches his own arm, almost disappointed in himself. Bokuto isn’t a child, he thinks to himself, and he’d survived sixteen years of his life just fine without Akaashi running after him. Bokuto doesn’t need him, probably, but Akaashi finds himself wanting to be wanted anyways. 

(The thought hits him sometimes at odd moments – picking up stray balls between drills or walking to the train station in the late evening light with their shadows stretching out behind them or when he hears the familiar squeak of shoes against hardwood floor – and it leaves him winded. It’s all in the little moments, and he’s not sure why it hurts so much. He tries not to think about it too much.)

“You’re really good, Akaashi,” Bokuto says quietly. He’s smushing his face into his arms now, and his voice comes out a little muffled, but Akaashi hears every syllable clear as day. “I’m sorry I wasn’t better too.”

Akaashi swears his heart stops for a second, dropping like a stone in his chest. Bokuto’s voice sounds small and scared, like there really does exist a limit to Bokuto’s boundless bravado, and Akaashi feels his ears start to ring. Akaashi thinks about being in middle school and watching Bokuto play and thinking _this is something I will never be able to have_ but still wanting, desperately, irrationally, to get even an inch closer. He thinks about meeting Bokuto and having every expectation thrown out the window for the better, Bokuto who’s so warm and kind, who laughs like it’s the easiest thing in the entire world, who doesn’t know the meaning of trying, only doing. He thinks about the way Bokuto glows when their upperclassmen praise him, about how Bokuto’s boisterous confidence often gives way to something quieter when no one’s looking, this need to be better, always, this need to prove that there’s no mountain he can’t overcome, again and again and again. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, almost whispers, his heart a lump in his throat, wishing he had the words to say that Bokuto has nothing to apologize for, that he’s never been a disappointment, that Bokuto could never win another match ever again and Akaashi still wouldn’t think any less of him, but the sentiment sticks to his tongue, awkward and unwieldy, unsure if it’s wanted or needed. Akaashi bites the inside of his cheek, wondering when the easy affection between them grew into something so staggering in his own chest. 

Bokuto lets out a long, shaky breath, shoulders sagging, and shifts his weight to lean into Akaashi’s side, letting his head drop down into Akaashi’s shoulder. He presses his face into the curve of where Akaashi’s neck meets his collarbones like a small kitten seeking comfort, and when he exhales, Akaashi can feel his breath tickle his skin. 

“I wish you could play all the time,” Bokuto says, murmuring the words into Akaashi’s shirt. “I really feel like I could do anything with you.”

The hairs at the back of Akaashi’s neck stand on end, and his skin almost feels like it’s crackling with static electricity. He clasps his hands tightly together so he won’t do something stupid and impulsive like reach out and see for himself if Bokuto’s hair is really as soft as it looks. He breathes in and out on measured counts of five. Bokuto touches him all the time, casual and careless, clapping a hand on his back after a particularly good set, throwing an arm across his shoulders when they’re leaving school after practice, grabbing Akaashi’s wrist to pull him through the halls and outside at lunch during particularly nice days. But under the cover of night, the muted atmosphere draping over them like a thick blanket, Akaashi thinks to himself that it’s never felt quite like this before, this tender, this vulnerable, this needy. He doesn’t know what to make of it. Maybe, Akaashi thinks, it’s all in his head, the gentleness he reads in the way Bokuto tucks himself up against Akaashi, the comfort Bokuto seems to find in the gesture. Maybe he’s just seeing what he wants to see. 

“Next year,” Akaashi promises, even though he’s not usually in the business of promising far-flung things he has no way of knowing the truth to. But Bokuto is warm by his side and Akaashi’s heart is racing in his chest like he’s just run twenty laps around the gym, and he realizes that he’s probably been making all sorts of promises without realizing it, starting with the decision to come to Fukuroudani for even the slightest chance to play alongside Bokuto someday. What’s one more, he thinks, if he’s already in this deep. No point in turning back halfway. “Next year, we’re going to be invincible.”

For the first time that night, Bokuto laughs, this quiet thing that rumbles through Akaashi’s bones, picking up resonance until Akaashi feels himself shivering again, but this time it leaves him feeling bright and alert instead of just cold. He can feel Bokuto’s mouth curve up into a smile against his shirt, even as he realizes that there’s a small damp spot where Bokuto’s face is, tears gathering where his cheek meets Akaashi’s shoulder. It’s getting late, creeping up slowly on midnight, and it’s been days filled with too much adrenaline and not enough down time, but Akaashi doesn’t feel tired at all.

“Yeah,” Bokuto says, “Yeah, next year.”

Bokuto sounds so pleased that Akaashi doesn’t even care that it’s a truly ridiculous thing to even offer, this badge of immortality. Rationality can wait till the morning, he thinks. For now, he’s content to live in a version of the world where he believes that he can become that person to Bokuto, even if just for a moment. Bokuto reaches out to grab one of Akaashi’s hands to fiddle absently with his fingers like he sometimes does during team meetings, like he’s picked up Akaashi’s bad habits, and Akaashi wonders if Bokuto can feel how warm his palms have gotten. He wonders if Bokuto would mind if he knew. 

In the morning, they’ll go home empty-handed after so many months of hard work, but Akaashi finds himself thinking that he can’t quite find it in himself to think that it’s all been for nothing. 

**_iii. i have no other star_ **

In the early days of December during Akaashi’s first year, inching up on Akaashi’s birthday, the chill that has settled over the city follows him into the club room, making it draftier than usual as he changes for morning practice. It’s mostly quiet, everyone yawning and still trying to rub the last bits of sleep out of their eyes, but amidst it all, Bokuto is a beacon of light. He chatters on to Konoha and Komi about a weird dream he had the night before, not bothered at all by their distracted half-responses ( _uh huh_ and _that’s nice_ and _interesting_ ), and he’s dressed only in shorts and a t-shirt but his cheeks are rosy and warm. His things spill out of his locker and onto the floor – wrinkled t-shirts and a couple snack bars and spare kneepads – and he doesn’t seem to notice or mind, already racing at a thousand miles an hour at six-thirty in the morning. He’s probably the only person Akaashi knows who, even at seventeen, is unabashedly, unmistakably a morning person. 

“Hey, Akaashi!” Bokuto says suddenly, loudly, crossing the room in a few long strides and next to Akaashi in the blink of an eye. Akaashi stares, still not quite awake enough to process everything happening around him, and Bokuto just smiles, cheery and bright. “You busy after practice today?”

Akaashi blinks. “This morning?” he asks dubiously. “We have class.”

Bokuto looks at him with wide eyes, tilting his head to one side, for a long moment before laughing. “Right,” he says, scratching the back of his neck.

A few seconds of quiet settle in between them. Their teammates are all slowly trickling out of the room, headed to the gym for the start of practice, and the opening and closing of the door lets in puffs of cold air at irregular intervals. The room quiets, and in front of him, Bokuto shifts his weight a little from one foot to the other, restless hands and shifty eyes. Akaashi’s struck by the sudden, stunning realization that this is maybe the first time he’s ever seen Bokuto nervous. Akaashi swallows around a lump that’s risen to his throat. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says softly, deliberately steady, twining his fingers together. “We’ll be late for practice.”

Bokuto blinks and then smiles, wide and warm, but maybe, Akaashi thinks, a shade more tentative than usual. “Right, right,” Bokuto says, bouncing a little on his toes. “Just, um. I have something to ask you. After practice. So, uh. Don’t run off on me, ’kay?”

Akaashi feels something clench in his chest, something caught halfway between dread and impatience. He takes a deep breath. 

“Okay,” Akaashi says, trying to ignore the feeling creeping up the back of his throat.

Bokuto beams, all at once loose and free again, his shoulders relaxing and the anxious furrow in his brow smoothing out in favor of his usual high spirits, like this is the only thing he needs for his world to be righted again, and he reaches out to pull Akaashi by the wrist out of the room for practice. Despite the winter chill, Bokuto’s hand around his wrist is somehow still warm, and even when he releases Akaashi, Akaashi can still feel where his fingertips rested against Akaashi’s skin like he’s been branded. He wears the feeling on his skin for the rest of practice, rubbing absently at the spot like there was evidence of his racing pulse left behind. 

Practice at once seems too long and too short, alternating between minutes that seem to stretch on for years as Bokuto runs up to spike a ball Akaashi’s set during spiking drills and the blur of motion that’s become synonymous in Akaashi’s mind with Bokuto and this team and what volleyball can be. There’s a part of Akaashi that hasn’t quite settled down yet, that hopes that he’ll never have to confront whatever it is that looms in his future, the nerves that accompany such an open-ended request jittering right under his skin. There’s a part of him that can’t wait for practice to be over. 

When they wrap up for the morning, Akaashi changes into his school uniform without really processing any of it. He feels a little like he’s underwater, the familiar chatter of his teammates – complaining about being tired or talking about what they want for lunch or, in one case, squeezing in some last minute studying – filling his ears in an unintelligible murmur, and Akaashi tries to remind himself to breathe, his throat dry. His thoughts are an endless parade of every single thing Bokuto could possibly want to ask him. Maybe he’s upset that Akaashi told him that he wouldn’t be able to stay late for extra practice this week because he’s got a group project and the only time they’ll all be free is after their various club meetings and practices. Maybe he just wants to talk about the practice match they have coming up this weekend, overeager and excited. But then Akaashi thinks about Bokuto’s uncharacteristic nervousness earlier, Bokuto who’s stood on the national stage without breaking a sweat, Bokuto who charges head first into everything like fear is a completely foreign concept to him, and everything he manages to come up with ends up feeling just outside of quite right.

(Maybe, Akaashi finds himself thinking, it’s not about volleyball at all, and then immediately squashes the thought, reminding himself not to be so presumptuous.)

But then they’re walking together towards the academic buildings and all Bokuto’s talking about is how hungry he is already even though it’s barely eight and detailing everything he had for breakfast and wondering _well how is it even possible that I’m so hungry, Akaashi_ and _is it a lot of food, Akaashi? It felt like a lot of food_. It’s all so painfully routine, all the mindless musing that usually follows Akaashi on his way to homeroom, which he probably should take as a good sign, that maybe it’s not such a big deal after all with how the question Bokuto so badly wanted to ask him has gotten lost in the shuffle of the mundane, but he can’t find it in him to be comforted by any of it. 

Akaashi’s fingers feel cold in a way that has nothing to do with the frigid winter air, and he grips the strap of his bag tightly like it’ll somehow ground him. He waits five, carefully measured breaths so his voice won’t shake when he finally interrupts. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, and his voice comes out quieter than he means for it to, but it stops Bokuto cold anyways. Bokuto looks at Akaashi with wide eyes, and Akaashi feels something clench in his chest, something not quite out of nerves but partly something else entirely. He takes another deep breath before he presses on, “You wanted to ask me something.”

Bokuto blinks at Akaashi for a long moment before his expression breaks wide open into a bright smile, the anxiety Akaashi sensed in him earlier in the morning giving way to something more like anticipation. 

“Oh, right!” Bokuto exclaims, like he really did forget, like it could be that simple. 

Bokuto leans his weight back a little on his heels and he hasn’t stopped smiling, but Akaashi thinks it’s softer, somehow, realer. Akaashi feels the tension in his shoulders slowly start to ease. 

“So, in like a month, after the Spring Tournament, the third-years are retiring right?” Bokuto says, and nothing about him is ever quiet, per se, but there’s something different about the way he’s talking to Akaashi now than every other time, something more careful, more gentle. “And, um, when that happens, they’re going to make me captain.”

“Oh,” Akaashi says, wondering if that’s all there is to it, if this, somehow, got built up in Bokuto’s mind as something to be nervous about, and then he wonders if he’s just projecting. “Congrats.”

“I’m not finished,” Bokuto whines, petulant, but Akaashi knows he doesn’t really mean anything by it. Bokuto cycles through emotions sometimes like trying on clothes for size, searching for the ones that fit. Bokuto squares his shoulders and continues, “I have to pick a vice captain, and um. Well. I wanted to ask if you would do it.”

For a long moment, Akaashi can’t move, every thought in his mind screeching to a halt. Of everything Akaashi had imagined, his anxious mind working in overdrive all morning to fill in the gaps, this isn’t even something that Akaashi had begun to consider. It probably shouldn’t feel like such a big deal, he thinks to himself. It’s just volleyball, after all. But he knows that to say that would be a lie, that this stopped feeling like _just_ anything a long, long time ago. 

Akaashi doesn’t realize he’s been quiet for probably just a moment too long until he notices Bokuto start to shift his weight from one foot to the other again, antsy, and Bokuto adds, a little too quickly, “You don’t have to, obviously, if you don’t want to. But, um, just think about it, okay? You have time, you know, to decide. So just promise me you’ll think about it, yeah?”

Akaashi blinks slowly, willing himself to say something, anything, to stop the tiny tremor that’s seeping into Bokuto’s words, to stop the way he’s rambling like he does sometimes when he thinks he’s said the wrong thing and he’s trying to course-correct, but Akaashi finds that his tongue feels like it’s made of lead in his mouth. 

“What about the guys in your year?” Akaashi finally manages to get out, even though it’s not really what he means to say. 

Bokuto frowns, his eyebrows drawing together, confused. “They wouldn’t be mad about it, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says. “I mean, I know people usually pick people in their own year as vice captain, but I don’t think any of them really care about that.”

Akaashi screws his eyes shut and shakes his head once, sharply, trying to push down on the odd sort of franticness trying to escape his chest. “That’s not what I—”

“Akaashi.”

Akaashi’s eyes fly open again at the sound of Bokuto’s voice. He’s quieter now, a little more settled, like he’s decided something, and there’s something almost unbearably soft about it that makes Akaashi’s heart leap into his throat. Bokuto smiles at him, this small, sweet thing, and reaches out to ease Akaashi’s hands free of where they’re still clutching at the strap of his bag so tightly that Akaashi’s knuckles are turning white. Bokuto’s hands are warm against Akaashi’s skin, and Akaashi almost shivers when Bokuto runs his fingers absently across the calluses on Akaashi’s palms. 

“I just really, really like playing volleyball with you,” Bokuto says, a little more hushed than usual, like this is something private and personal. “So, I want to do this with you. I want to take this team to nationals with you. I want to lead this team to victory with you. Because you know, I really meant it when I said I feel like I could do anything when we’re playing together.”

Bokuto’s not the type of person who’s very good at hiding anything, his earnest eyes giving him away every time, but there’s something, somehow, that seems impossibly even more sincere about what Bokuto’s saying, and Akaashi almost doesn’t know what to do with himself. All he can feel is his pulse jumping beneath his skin and Bokuto’s hands still holding his own. 

“I’m not going to make you,” Bokuto says, “If you really don’t want to. But I think… I think we could make it a really good year, you and me. So, just think about it for a bit, okay? Coach and them, they don’t really need an answer for like a month, so you have time, and—”

“I’ll do it,” Akaashi blurts out before he can think better of it. 

He barely hears himself over erratic _thump-thump-thump_ of his heart in his ears, but he’s pretty sure his voice comes out startled and a little wobbly. And any other day, he’d maybe worry a little more about it, worry that maybe it says a little too much about him, but as soon as Akaashi says it, Bokuto’s eyes widen and his expression breaks open into something so unbelievably delighted, and Akaashi thinks to himself that despite his worst fears, things will probably end up being okay, in the end. 

“Really?” Bokuto exclaims, his voice booming out again, all at once excited and ecstatic. He looks like Akaashi’s given him the entire universe in one simple sentence. “Do you really mean it?”

Akaashi laughs, almost surprised that something so small can seem to have such a profound impact on one person, but he’s pleased, mostly. His cheeks feel, embarrassingly, a little warm, but Bokuto’s looking at him with a grin so bright that Akaashi wonders if it’s possible to go blind from a smile alone, and Akaashi thinks that if it would mean getting Bokuto to look at him like this again, he’d agree all over again every day for the rest of his life. He squeezes Bokuto’s hands and smiles, feeling soft and squishy and sentimental. 

“Yes,” Akaashi says quietly. He can feel this inexplicable urge rising up the back of his throat to the tip of his tongue, and for a moment, he almost thinks he won’t be able to reel it back in, but then he takes a breath, pauses, and says instead, “I really like playing volleyball with you too.”

It’s maybe just left of what he really means, of what the feeling sitting squarely in his chest really is, but it makes Bokuto smile nonetheless, warm in the winter chill, as he laces their fingers together, and Akaashi thinks to himself that maybe next time, he’ll find it in himself to be a little braver. 

**_iv. you are my replica of the multiplying universe_ **

When Akaashi thinks about it later, he thinks that he can pinpoint the exact moment he realizes just how stupidly, ridiculously in love he is. When he thinks about it later, it seems obvious, like it couldn’t have been any other way. But when it happens, all he can remember is Bokuto calling for the ball, the feeling of what he thinks might be a rare, perfect set leaving his fingertips, and the sound of the ball slamming down on the court, right on the line, whizzing past the Kawahori blockers who seemed so unbeatable just months ago. It’s not the end of the match, and it’s not even the end of the set, and it’s just a regional tournament at the end of the day, but it feels a little like a significant victory anyways, and Akaashi’s running before he realizes it, unable to stop the excitement from bubbling out of him in a shout to match Bokuto’s. When it happens, all Akaashi can remember is Bokuto’s arms closing around him to lift him just off the ground and laugh in his ear and murmur softly, _thank you_ , and Akaashi has about half a second to jerk back in surprise and catch the luminous smile on Bokuto’s face before their teammates swarm them. 

Fukuroudani wins, and it feels like a redemption. 

After, Akaashi finds himself in an empty hallway off to the side of the main gymnasium, thrilled and ecstatic but feeling like he needs the space, the breathing room. The cheers from the crowd are still echoing in his ears, and in a bit, he knows that if he doesn’t wander back to where the rest of the team is, they’ll send someone after him, but for now, Akaashi lets himself find a quiet corner and lean back against the wall, eyes falling shut and hands still shaking from the adrenaline still buzzing through his veins. Akaashi likes to think that things happen for a reason, and as he replays that moment over and over and over again in his mind, trying to burn into his memory what it felt like to be perfect, he hopes that this is a good omen for the year to come. 

The quick, quiet patter of shoes against the floor suddenly fills the air, drawing closer, and when Akaashi opens his eyes again, he finds Bokuto running towards him, beaming and brilliant. Akaashi lifts a hand to wave a little, a small smile of his own tugging at the corners of his mouth, and then Bokuto’s on him in an instant, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. Bokuto’s laughing and laughing and laughing, and when he pulls away, his cheeks are a little flushed and his eyes are shining, excitement and pure, radiant joy emanating out from him. His hands are still on Akaashi’s shoulders, and he shakes Akaashi a little, like all the kinetic energy trapped just under his skin is fighting to get out. 

“That was amazing!” Bokuto cheers, the thrill from earlier still riding high in his voice. 

Bokuto’s hands are warm on Akaashi’s shoulders and they’re shaking, just a little bit, and he’s looking at Akaashi like nothing in the entire world will ever be better than just this, and Akaashi feels something seize in his chest, a kind of quiet pride at being able to be even a small part of this, a kind of longing for something that feels just out of reach. Akaashi lets himself smile, a little lazier and wider than he usually lets himself, feeling oddly hazy but safe and content as he slowly settles back down from everything that’s happened today. 

“Yes,” Akaashi says softly. “You did it.”

As he says it, he thinks to himself that he probably expected this, that all along, all those extra practices that stretched late into the night, all the many hours spent poring over footage from after-school drills and practice matches and professional games, all along he had a feeling that things would turn out this way eventually. He thinks about all the nights he’s spent at Bokuto’s house, all the nights Bokuto’s stayed over at his, talking strategy till the wee hours of the morning. Akaashi thinks about the kind of rapt attention Bokuto channels when he’s on the court, about how playing volleyball with him has changed the way Akaashi thinks about the sport and maybe the world in ways he never could’ve dreamed up, and Akaashi thinks, _but of course_. Thinks, _if anyone, you always could_.

What Akaashi doesn’t expect is for the brightness in Bokuto’s expression to falter, just a touch, as Bokuto’s hands fall to his sides again. Bokuto’s eyebrows draw together and he tips his head a little to one side like he’s puzzling over something, something important, something difficult. Akaashi has never really liked being the center of attention, but he finds himself wondering what Bokuto sees. 

“No,” Bokuto says after a long moment. He frowns. “ _We_ did. I really couldn’t have done it without you.”

A small, startled laugh leaves Akaashi’s mouth in a short breath. He can feel the pinpricks of heat creeping up his spine, under his collar, as he ducks his chin and says, the nervous words rolling off his tongue before he can stop them, “That’s very kind of you to say, but—”

“ _Akaashi_ ,” Bokuto says softly, insistently. He reaches out to take Akaashi’s hands in his own, fiddling a little with Akaashi’s fingers like he’s maybe a little restless, a little nervous. He looks at Akaashi and smiles, and it’s one of those rare, small smiles that Akaashi’s been noticing more and more lately, the ones that soften the edges of Bokuto’s fierce intensity into something more tender, more real. “I mean it.”

“I know,” Akaashi says quietly, and he does. He knows that Bokuto means what he says, always, and he knows that Bokuto’s faith and trust when you’ve earned it is all but unshakeable, and he knows that one way or another, Bokuto’s chosen him, whatever that ends up meaning in the grand scheme of things. 

“Then why do you keep fighting me on this?” Bokuto says, and there’s no malice to it, just this need to understand, like Akaashi’s worth paying this much attention to. 

Akaashi lets out a breath and shakes his head. “I don’t—”

Bokuto laughs before Akaashi can get the rest of the thought out, but it’s probably for the better anyways, because Akaashi isn’t entirely sure what he would’ve said. Bokuto looks at Akaashi in disbelief, but it’s so unbearably fond that Akaashi has to look away. 

“You really have no idea how amazing you are, do you?” Bokuto says, almost whispers, and it startles Akaashi enough to make him snap his gaze back up to meet Bokuto’s eyes. Bokuto laughs again. “I think you’re one of the most incredible people I’ve ever met.”

Akaashi stares at Bokuto with wide eyes, his mouth slightly parted to try to make the beginning or an end of a sentence, but all he manages to get out is, “Oh.”

Bokuto smiles at Akaashi, soft and sweet and almost adoring in a way that Akaashi hasn’t ever been sure he hasn’t just making up this whole time. But then he thinks about it, thinks about all the late nights they’ve spent together, all the times work faded into the background, all their winding detours to the little things in between, like making plans to see a movie Bokuto’s excited about over the weekend, like baking brownies at midnight on a whim when Akaashi’s parents weren’t home and filling the house with the syrupy smell of rich chocolate. He thinks about all the times Bokuto popped into his classroom during lunch just to drop off a soda and steal bites out of his bento, all the times Bokuto’s found excuses to touch him—tucking his chin over Akaashi’s shoulder when Akaashi goes to show him something on his phone, leaning into Akaashi’s side on long bus rides and pretending to sleep, grabbing Akaashi by the hand to pull him through the crowded streets of downtown to get to what he claims is the best ramen shop in the whole city. 

Akaashi looks down at where their hands meet and he smiles, feeling something warm and quiet and a little frightening bloom in his chest, running all the way down to his toes. He shifts his weight a little and laces their fingers together.

“I think,” Akaashi says slowly, trying to ignore the way it feels like his heart is about to leap out of his chest. “I think you’re pretty amazing too.”

And then, before he has a chance to lose out to the most anxious part of himself, he tips himself up on his toes and kisses Bokuto. It’s quick and light, but Akaashi hears Bokuto let out a soft gasp, feels Bokuto’s lips part a little in surprise, and Akaashi feels a little like the butterflies in his stomach will rise up and out of his throat. 

Bokuto stares at Akaashi with wide eyes, caught off guard but still pleased, maybe, that small smile still gathering at the corners of his eyes. “Oh,” Bokuto says.

Akaashi feels his cheeks flush, but he’s never been one to leave anything half finished. He meets Bokuto’s bright eyes and feels that familiar urge bubbling to the surface of his skin, this inexplicable impulse to do something wild and ill-advised. Akaashi’s never thought of himself as a particularly impulsive person, preferring, always, the comfort of being methodical, but he looks at Bokuto sometimes and feels like maybe he wants to try. 

“I like you, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says softly, unable to stop himself, and even _that_ is maybe not true, because the swooping feeling he gets when Bokuto smiles at him is maybe tipping right over the edge of _like_ into something a little more like _love_ , but Akaashi supposes, as with most things, it’s probably best to start small. Methodical _and_ impulsive, he thinks idly. Maybe there’s a balance to be found there after all. 

Bokuto laughs, tender and sweet, and leans in to rest his forehead against Akaashi’s. “I know,” he says, and Akaashi’s heart leaps and asks _how long?_ , and then a moment later _does it matter?_ Bokuto’s leaning into his space and smiling at him like there’s a secret only the two of them know, and he asks, “Does that mean I get to kiss you whenever I want?”

The question startles another laugh out of Akaashi, but this one feels warm and safe. “Within reason,” he says and only halfway succeeds at sounding firm. 

“So probably not during practice, then,” Bokuto says, but it’s mostly tongue-in-cheek. 

“Probably not,” Akaashi says. His cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling so widely. 

Bokuto leans in a little closer, his nose bumping lightly against Akaashi’s. “How about right now?” he asks, and Akaashi can almost feel Bokuto’s lips brushing against his own. 

Akaashi feels a shiver shoot up his spine and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Yes.”

He feels more than hears Bokuto laugh again, the sound getting drowned out by Bokuto’s mouth on his, by one of Bokuto’s hands coming to slide around to the small of his back, warm through the thin material of Akaashi’s jersey. Bokuto kisses him and kisses him and kisses him until all Akaashi can hear is the sound of his own heart pounding in his chest, so loud he’s sure Bokuto can hear it too, and it would maybe be embarrassing if Bokuto didn’t look so pleased, so effervescently happy when he pulls away, because then all Akaashi can think about is how he can get Bokuto to look at him like that again (and again and again). 

“You know,” Bokuto says, smiling so widely that Akaashi, irrationally, wonders if he’ll pull a muscle. “I think this is going to be a really good year.”

Akaashi laughs, the kind of laugh that he can feel all the way down to his fingertips, the kind that he knows makes his eyes scrunch up into two half-moons across his face, the kind that he learns makes Bokuto laugh too and pepper tiny kisses to his temples, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth. There’s an idle thought, somewhere at the back of Akaashi’s mind, wondering if what Bokuto means is the team and volleyball or maybe just this, here, but then Akaashi looks at Bokuto, at this boy who’s so many multitudes more than anything Akaashi could ever have imagined when he’d decided to attend Fukuroudani, and it strikes him that Bokuto has and always will mean all of the above, that Bokuto doesn’t promise in halves, that his dreams are big enough to encompass everything Akaashi’s come to love. 

“Yeah,” Akaashi says, even though he’s not in the habit of making promises he can’t know he’ll keep. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! and thanks in advance for any comments/kudos -- they mean more to me than you can imagine!
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](http://youichi-kuramochi.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/kura_ryous), if you like!


End file.
